Turn Left
by BBCRULES
Summary: This was inspired by a Doctor Who episode, "Turn Left". Enjoy. Based on my Reichenbach story, Sebastian Moran's Journal. Three-part. Reviews and comments are very welcome. Thanks for reading:)
1. Chapter 1

This is inspired by "TURN LEFT", a Doctor Who episode of the season 4. If he/she had not turned left, what would've happened? Enjoy:) Reviews and comments are VERY welcome. It's one-shot for now.

This story follows my Reichenbach story: At the morgue - The Fall - Surprise - and then turn left.

* * *

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**Post Reichenbach, weeks after the fall.**

A black taxi was stuck in the traffic: the passenger's face remained tense, though he had plenty of time left before his flight. Yet the driver kept fidgeting and grunting, glancing back from time to time. Her passenger seemed to get impatient every minute due to the delay. This was her first week as a taxi driver and she was disappointing her passenger already. Finally, the cabbie cussed the traffic, punched a new address in the navigator, and suddenly turned right at the next signal. In most of the times, cars turned left to go to the Heathrow Airport. Alarmed, the passenger knocked at the glass panel in question, and the driver smiled back and mouthed, "Faster!"

Ten minutes later, the cab slammed into a big empty tourist double-decker on the road; black smoke billowed and the taxi's front half was unrecognizable. Paramedics and police officers swarmed around the car, trying hard to rescue the driver and the passenger. The driver was dead on the spot. The passenger was transported to the nearest hospital. The seatbelt had saved him from getting seriously hurt though he was knocked unconscious with some bruises on his face. His leg was bleeding with its ankle twisted in a weird angle. Based on the passport found in the man's jacket, the police tried to contact the family.

* * *

Sergeant Donovan was having an emergency surgery. She had cornered a suspect alone yet was overpowered by him: he had stabbed her three times, one deep and the others shallow. Though she wasn't in a critical condition, she bled too much and needed medical attention. Lestrade followed her in the ambulance and waited outside the emergency room. He hated hospital: it was rather depressing although the interior was all glossy white and modern.

A trolley was pulled out of the emergency room. He glanced at it to check if it was Sally. His eyes casually fleeted across the person's face and his heart almost stopped. It wasn't possible because the person on the trolley was supposed to be dead: pale skin, height, facial contours. The only difference was his hair color: that man was ginger. He shouted at the hospital staff to stop. He ran towards the trolley and stared at the unconscious man's face. Despite some bruises and swelling, he looked so similar to someone that he knew so well: the man who had jumped from Bart's rooftop a couple of weeks ago. The DI himself had attended the funeral. He tried to rationalize the situation: there might be two people looking similar. It might be from his guilt. However, he couldn't brush off the nagging feeling. Before the staff said anything, he flashed his ID and badge, and followed the trolley, completely forgetting Sally.

Waiting for the elevator, Lestrade leaned towards the man and pulled up the sleeve of his left arm. There they were on his lower arm: a couple of ugly scars from self-inflicted wounds. It was too far-fetched to assume that two men looking alike could have similar scars at the same spot. The man had to be Sherlock Holmes. The DI had found him bleeding in his flat years ago - craving for cocaine, the young Sherlock had brandished a knife on himself. Later Sherlock was sent to a rehabilitation center in Florida for a year.

The DI's face hardened. He called John Watson to come and followed the trolley to the man's room. Arthur Sigerson was the name in the name tag. The staff nodded when he asked if he could stay with the man. He sat next to the bed, studied the man's face for a double-check, and texted John the room number. Then he took a picture of the man's face just in case, called his office, and asked for ID check for Arthur Sigerson.

About half an hour later, someone knocked at the door; Lestrade opened it and found John.

"Stop. You can't get in there."

Someone yelled at the two men. Out of nowhere an armed man dressed like a CIA agent appeared, who didn't look impressed when the DI showed his ID and badge. Lestrade didn't budge; John looked at the two men, totally puzzled; and the agent made a phone call after asking who they were.

"There's no doubt about it. Mycroft Holmes must be behind this."

Lestrade whispered to John, but the doctor wasn't sure what was going on. John whispered back,

"What was that all about?"

The DI didn't answer but pointed at the room. The agent hung up the phone, and gestured the men to enter. They closed the door behind them while the agent guarding the door in the aisle. He breathed out one word to John, pointing at the man on the bed.

"Him"

John's eyes darted at the unconscious man. Lestrade could see the doctor's muscles gettting tense for a second. Then John slouched on the floor with groans. Muttering profanity, he grabbed Lestrade's arms to stand up. Lestrade said,

"It's him. He has scars on his left arm: self-inflicted ones long time ago. I checked them just now."

"How? He died! I saw him fall. I saw his lifeless body on the ground."

John breathed raggedly. Lestrade made the doctor sit down and got water for him. The DI knew he had to check Donovan's condition but he couldn't care less for now. The doctor started to tremble with his fists clenched into tight balls. His face was reddening with his blue eyes turning icy with questions. It was one of the rare moments that John could be very scary. Lestrade flinched without knowing, remembering so well that John Watson was a fighter.

The door opened abruptly. Mycroft Holmes walked in: his face was the usual nonchalance. He closed the door behind him and started to explain in low voice.

* * *

Thanks for reading:) Reviews and comments are welcome.

*I always send a thank you PM to signed-in reviewers. I can't to guest reviewers. But like the same, thank you so much, everyone.


	2. Chapter 2

If the taxi had turned left, this would've not happened. Based on my Reichenbach story, Sebastian Moran's Journal. Please, review or comment:) Three-part story.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

"John, do you know about acting?"

Lestrade asked cautiously after he opened the door to the parking lot. John realized that he was almost marching with his back straighten up.

"No, but I get your point."

The two men had talked with Mycroft for half an hour. The older Holmes sternly warned about a presence of the third shooter.

_If the killer found out Sherlock's alive, he could target not only John but also Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade._

Mycroft had repeated the words over and over. The mysterious shooter could still watch John so it was critical that John "act" convincingly to everybody. For ten minutes out of the room, John failed magnificently: he couldn't help it. His face was glowing with warmth; his gait was energetic. Lestrade understood for he had experienced the same exhilaration when his best friend survived three bullets from a maniac. Sherlock was still sedated when they left the room. According to Mycroft, Sherlock was to be moved to somewhere else that night once he came to.

John bought two sandwiches and coffees while Greg checked on Donovan; her sister came to stay the night with her and the DI had to go back to office. John jumped into the seat, almost humming a military march song. The DI signed and called,.

"John."

John mumbled,

"Yes, I know. I know. We have to act from now as a grieving friend."

"Yeah, as Mycroft said, John, the sniper may be watching you even now."

John, having spent years at war, didn't flinch at a possibility that one of the top snipers might turn his rifle on him, but the "acting" part seemed to be challenging. He frowned, handing one sandwich to Greg and taking a huge bite of his. After chewing his bite down, he grunted,

"Get stuck in the flat, doing nothing and eating nothing. It's really tempting."

"You can't tell Mrs. Hudson."

"For her own safety, I agree."

They chewed and drank for a few minutes. John was walking on air; he completely forgot the past weeks since the fall. He was giddy: Lestrade couldn't hide his smile, either. They finished their sandwiches and coffees. Suddenly John gasped,

"I was supposed to meet Ella. The counseling session. I was on my way when you called me."

"She'll understand. Set up another appointment."

"I don't think I need her help. But I need to "grieve-act"! It's impossible! She'll know I am lying."

"Maybe Mycroft might ask her to refer you to other "therapist." Call him."

The car started moving and John made a short phone call to the older Holmes. When they were almost at Baker Street, something hit the doctor's mind.

"Reporters. A few bloody reporters are always nesting around the flat. I can feel their eyes on me when I step out. "

Greg's face turned serious.

"The sniper may disguise as a reporter. How can you get back to the flat without looking fishy? I got an idea. We need a couple of beers."

They bought beers. Lestrade emptied a few beer cans and made the doctor drink a few sips from one can. He stopped the car at the flat and almost dragged the doctor who was waving a bag of empty beer cans and drinking from the other can. Leaving behind Mrs. Hudson's pitiful eyes, the DI supported the doctor to 221B.

John fell "asleep" on the sofa, groaning while Mrs. Hudson busied herself, making tea for Lestrade. It was almost a miracle that she stayed in the 221B only for ten minutes - the flat with Sherlock's things was a sad place. Greg closed the door and started his searches for bugs, looking behind the books and picture frames, and opening drawers and cabinet doors. Lestrade found nothing, but he wasn't sure. He pretended to wake the doctor up. John rubbed his eyes and staggered up, heading to his bed room with Lestrade's help. They whispered,

"We'd better ask Mycroft to check the flat, including your bedroom, John."

"Do you think we will be able to talk to him?"

They knew who "him" was.

"I doubt it."

"He'll be okay, right?"

"Of course."

John spent very hard time getting asleep: he kept tossing and turning. His mind revisited the day of the fall; the doctor realized how foolish he was to believe only what he saw. As his friend used to say, he needed to observe, not just see.

The next night Lestrade visited the Holmes manor on Mycroft's request. The detective had been moved to a secret government-owned clinic. The two men talked for hours about the detective, the sniper, scandals, and John. Mycroft arranged a new "therapist" for the doctor.

**August**

Arthur Sigerson recovered well and left London for Czech Republic. Hours later, Mycroft got a message from Sigerson in Prague. He called the funeral house and ordered a tombstone for Sherlock's grave.

Cemetery

John saw a tall man with a black umbrella praying in front of the glossy black marble. He cleared his throat. Mycroft nodded while John laid roses in front of the grave. In silence they stared at the glittering letters, Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft, although he knew it was a safe place to talk, saved his words. John told him that he and Mrs. Hudson would visit the grave in a few days.

**September**

Richard Brook's body was released to his ex-wife, Tracy Smith. Few newspapers had a short article about his death. He was buried without a proper funeral. Mycroft kept the surveillance on her, but there was no sign of the man on CCTV.

**October**

John got a part-time job as a doctor. Almost everyone around him was happy because he seemed to get over the grief well. Mrs. Hudson wondered why John didn't put away Sherlock's things including the violin and the bloody skull. The flat was clean, quiet, and odorless; the refrigerator had food. John's life was uneventful if that was compared to the previous one before Sherlock's fall. He was still seeing a "therapist", who was indeed an agent from Mycroft's office. Mycroft Holmes sometimes joined John and they talked about their chase after the evasive sniper.

John didn't know anything about the man on CCTV near Ms. Tracy's house so the older Holmes briefed: for now he was the only person who might have some connection to Richard Brook a.k.a. J. Moriarty. Actually anyone could be the third sniper: a man or a woman. John could trust only five people: his sister, the landlady, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. The doctor had so many questions especially about his flatmate but he barely had a chance to talk it out. He could talk to Molly or Greg yet there was no reason for him to go to a crime scene or Bart's: people might notice it. Mrs. Hudson was much better to know less. The doctor had never been happier to see Mycroft at the "therapy" session: he was almost the only one that the doctor could take off a mask of grievance.

One time the doctor joined Lestrade and other Yarders at a pub. Everybody including Donovan and Anderson seemed to be happy to see the doctor. Some officers wanted to use this opportunity to apologize for their distrust of the late detective. Donovan, whom he came across at the grave once, shot a tentative smile of welcome and Anderson mumbled his apology to the doctor. Something fired up inside him: the doctor excused himself for a minute, and came back with his eyes red and teary. Lestrade tapped John, helping him to get out. In his car, he complimented John's act as something that could earn a BAFTA.

**Around Christmas**

Molly Hooper stared at the door of the café; the words of Sebastian were still ringing in her ears.

_"We all need an answer to the final problem, don't we?"_

Sebastian was an old friend of Jim Moriarty: she once met Sebastian on her last date with Jim. With a trembling hand, she punched the number of Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes curiously looked at the number: It was Dr. Hooper. Since the funeral, they hadn't talked. Her trembling voice alerted him. After a couple of minutes, he instructed her to wait in the Bart's lab: he sent Anthea to get Dr. Hooper while putting her on the surveillance. The CCTV around the corner of the café was out of order - he gritted his teeth at the mal-maintenance of CCTV cameras in London. Molly Hooper moved to a safe house.

**January**

Mycroft had talked with Lestrade and John about Molly's scary encounter with a stranger who might be the evasive sniper. Two armed agents watched the flat 24 hours. For a couple of weeks, John jumped at a small noise, always left the light of the flat on when he got out and carried his gun all the time. Sometimes he stared intently the faces of his male patients and only made them complain about the doctor – Sebastian was a tall blonde man according to Molly. However, nothing happened.

One day John came back from his work, feeling more exhausted. He had covered for his colleague, Sarah for three more hours. There was a problem in the pipes so it wasn't possible to cook something in the flat. He was starving so he didn't hesitate when his landlady sent a text to meet at café near the Tesco. He found the café easily and entered. Mrs. Hudson wasn't alone: she was having tea with a stranger. The man introduced him as Moran. He must've been one of Sherlock's clients: he owed the detective a lot according to him. Mrs. Hudson had met him at the funeral and came across him just now at Tesco.

There was something special in the way that this Moran bloke talked and acted. He sounded like his best military buddy. At John's tentative question, Moran answered that he had been in Afghanistan. He obviously had left the army before the doctor: his final rank was colonel. They pleasantly talked about the people that they had known together, including a legendary shooter, Sam Johnson. To their surprise, both of them had learnt the basic skills of shooting from Sam. Moran suggested they visit a shooting range someday together. John gladly agreed and exchanged their contact numbers.

* * *

Moran paced around his sitting room, pondering over Watson's attitude. John Watson was too okay for a person who had lost his best friend a few months ago. His facial expression was so different from the one he saw at Bart's or the funeral. His eyes were not blank any more: they were burning alive.

_He must have gotten over the death of his friend or Sherlock Holmes wasn't his best friend or what?_

The last question sounded impossible: he saw the bleeding body wheeled into the morgue. Did the woman, Molly Hooper play a part in this? She looked suspicious enough when he confronted her last Christmas.

The next day was Saturday; Moran was hiding near the detective's grave for hours. He noticed a new headstone, and heard light footsteps approaching on the snowed ground. A woman was laying flowers. She stared at the grave for minutes, brushed off the snow on the marble, and turned around.

"Sergeant Donovan!"

It was John's voice: he obviously didn't expect her. His face was etched with grief and sorrow when he talked with her. He seemed to be a totally different person. Moran sent an inquiry e-mail about Captain John Watson to Sam Johnson. He needed more information to understand John.

**February**

John had called Moran for a few times, but he didn't answer the calls. One day, the doctor entered his "therapist's office", expecting to see the agent. Instead, there were Mycroft and Lestrade.

They talked about the suspicious man that Molly had encountered: no update on him. Mycroft wondered about the man that Mrs. Hudson and John had met together weeks ago. John answered that that Moran bloke could be one of Sherlock's past clients; that Mrs. Hudson met him at the funeral; and he was also in Kabul for years in the army. John's description was similar to Molly's yet there could be so many tall blond men in London. Military thing… Mycroft sighed: John had never changed. He was a soldier to the bone.

Molly Hooper returned to her flat. Back to square one.

* * *

Moran opened an e-mail from Sam Johnson: Sam was complimentary on Captain John Watson. Sam described John as an excellent soldier committed to the mission and his comrades. John had been shot in his left shoulder when he tried to save a fellow soldier. He could've died if the bullet had hit half an inch closer to the heart. Sam briefly mentioned Watson's psychological trauma: Watson witnessed his best buddy killed on a roadside bomb. Moran wondered if John Watson might have learnt a way to desensitize himself from death and loss.

**March**

John was amused to see Moran walking into his clinic. He had some trouble in his left hand. The X-ray showed a couple of tiny cracks in his second finger. They agreed to practice shooting when Moran got better.

It was a busy Monday: Sarah had come down with flu. John worked longer hours and saw more patients. He hadn't realized he lost his mobile until he got back to his flat. The next morning, he found his mobile on his hospital desk. He thought some cleaning staff had found it. He totally forgot about this.

**April**

John visited a shooting range; Moran was waiting. Both were excellent shooters: they almost scored the same. Moran could do better yet his left hand still hurt.

Over tea, two men found more in common besides their military experience. Moran had lost his best buddy a few months ago and had a hard time coping with the loss. He asked how John managed becasue the doctor seemed to deal with the pain quite well. John raised his eyes and Moran answered that he had read articles about the detective and the fraud scandal. Putting on a face of gloom and sorrow as much as possible, John recommended his former therapist, Ella to Moran.

The doctor flinched when he noticed Moran's intent stare. Moran noticed it and put on a timid and warm smile in a hurry. He suggested that they meet once a week for practice. John agreed, trying to ignore uncomfortable feeling.

For the next two weeks, Moran was very pleasant. He taught more tips in aiming. John thought about Lestrade whose aim had pitifully missed the dog at Baskerville: it was John's bullet that finished the dog. John asked Moran if he could invite his friend next time. Moran agreed so John called Lestrade on his way home.

**May**

Greg Lestrade enjoyed the practice with John and Moran. His marriage was breaking apart and he really needed some change in his life. He was awed when Moran didn't miss the mark once. Moran taught Greg the basic positioning and aiming, which greatly improved the DI's scores. After shooting, the trio agreed to have dinner together. Moran had to see someone so he would join them one hour later.

Moran's choice of restaurant was excellent: the food melted in their mouth literally while the price was not that bad. The colonel knew some men working in Scotland Yard, too. His behind-stories seemed to drive away gloom from the DI. The only bad thing of the day was that Lestrade couldn't find his mobile although he was so sure that he had it when he walked into the practice range.

"I can track it down! Don't worry."

Lestrade shrugged it off and seemed to be disappointed when Moran said he had to leave.

Two hours later, Lestrade called John and told that his phone was found in the bathroom of the Chinese restaurant. It was strange because the DI had never used the bathroom there. No fingerprints were found on the mobile, even not Greg's. Someone must've wiped it clean.

* * *

Moran's eyes were glued on the computer screen: there was a man's photo, the one he had copied from the DI's mobile. The man looked like someone he knew well though the man's face was bruised and swollen. The date was 26th of last June. He narrowed down his search to any types of accidents around London on the June 26th. One traffic accident near the Heathrow Airport caught his eyes: a cab driver died on the spot and the passenger seemed to have survived. He smirked at this. He touched the man's photo on the screen and whispered, "I found you!"


	3. Chapter 3

Moran touched the man's photo on the screen and whispered, "I found you!"

* * *

**7th of July, John's birthday**

John walked into the therapist's office. Mycroft alone was there. A small box was on the table. John looked tired and worried. He even didn't say anything when Mycroft said, "Happy Birthday". He shrugged and nodded a thank-you. Mycroft took out a very expensive cake made of Belgium chocolate. Handing out a dish with a creamy chocolate cake, the older Holmes asked casually,

"So do you have any plans for tonight? It's your birthday."

"No. Nothing special. Your brother is right. It's just a day in 365 days."

Mycroft poured coffee and put a huge piece of cake into his mouth. Urging John to eat, Mycroft murmured in a half-chiding tone,

"You sound like him more and more."

John realized he had been rude. He smiled meekly with a belated thank-you. He drank tea, ignoring the cake on the dish. Staring at the cream, he asked,

"How did you know it's my birthday?"

"Sherlock called me last night."

The doctor remembered that the sleuth had asked when his birthday was: John had given him a pocket magnifier on Sherlock's birthday. The memory made him feel down more: he missed his flatmate.

"Is there something eating you? Your face's getting longer and longer everyday like him…"

At this, John's lips twitched a little. He had to confess: it was impossible to hide something from the Holmes anyway.

"You know, my new friend from the army, Moran? He disappeared."

"Call him or visit him."

"He recently moved out, left no forwarding address, and his number is not in service."

"Humn, he can have a psychological problem. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? You said he was also in Afghanistan, right?"

"Yes, but he seemed fine to me."

"What was his rank? Colonel, did you say?"

"Yes. Colonel Moran. I don't know his first name."

Mycroft's face hardened all of a sudden. In his mind map, a combined name, Sebastian Moran started to glitter. He sent a message to his assistant to find more about Colonel. He asked John to tell him whatever he knew about Colonel Moran. He secretly blamed himself.

_How could he not have checked the Moran bloke?_

15 minutes later, Mycroft's mobile beeped, alerting for incoming message. He glanced at it and turned pale.

"John. You need to move to a safe house right now with Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper. I will upgrade the surveillance on Lestrade, too."

John stared at Mycroft blankly, not sure if he had heard right. At his blank face, the older Holmes' voice raised rather impatiently, throwing off the usual facade of nonchalance.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran. Code Name, Tiger. He is the third shooter. He was so dangerously close to us and we had no idea!"

Without any more explanation, Mycroft made a few phone calls and escorted John to the flat himself to get his things, ignoring the rest of the cake on the table.

* * *

**October**

The safe house was quiet and well-furbished. Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson enjoyed their seclusion rather well; they giggled over telly; Molly got a rare paid leave from her work so she had little to complain. She studied forensics and pathology while discussing some topics in medical journals with John. Molly was lucky; John had to quit his job. He focused on physical training, exercising on the treadmill every day. As long as Moran is out there, he had to stay here. Sherlock was still abroad, working with local forces to break down Moriarty's web.

Mycroft once let John talk to Sherlock for the first time since he saw the detective sedated after the traffic accident. The call was brief. The low voice was the same; nothing had changed between them. To his surprise, Sherlock started with an apology and John was rather moved. Sherlock, however, sounded quite angry at his brother for letting Moran get so close to his friends. He declared that he needed a separate way to communicate with John besides through Mycroft. They agreed to use Sherlock's homepage for emergency contact. Sherlock could be somewhere without the Internet, yet it was by far good to have one channel to contact his friend. It became John's habit to visit the Science of Deduction every day.

John was quite shocked when Mycroft showed him a detailed file on Moran. After discharged from the army, his whereabouts were not known for a few years. Then he seemed to work as a professional assassin with a code name, Tiger. He was the man in the CCTV camera who had demanded Brook's ex-wife to request an investigation of Richard Brook's missing. Molly also confirmed that Moran was the man who had threatened her around Christmas.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ronald Adair was found dead, shot in the head twice in his bedroom locked inside. No sign of forced entry. No proof left whatsoever. It was the second murder: the first victim, Mr. Northwood. The police suspected a serial murderer on the loose: bullets were fired from the same rifle.

Lestrade protested at Mycroft: he could barely do his job due to the maximum surveillance that had been placed upon him for three months. Worse, cases turned cold faster without the consulting detective. It was frustrating enough to see demoralized officers in his department. In addition, he knew he might lose a chance to get a promotion if he failed again. After an hour of shouting match, Mycroft had to agree to lower the surveillance on the DI. Anyway he was in Scotland Yard with many armed officers; and Moran's primary target was John Watson.

* * *

**November**

Sherlock, when he walked out of the terminal 1, Heathrow Airport, sent a text to his brother. Soon his phone vibrated. Mycroft's voice was urgent.

"Sherlock, Lestrade's missing since last night. He got a message from his wife and left the office rather early. No one saw him or heard from him since then. His wife is also missing."

"Moran?"

"We don't know yet. Lestrade is a police officer; he may have other enemies."

"John? Mrs. Hudson? Molly?"

"John and Mrs. Hudson are in a safe house. Dr. Hooper, too."

"You're telling this to me now?"

Sherlock's voice was openly accusatory. The older Holmes exasperated,

"I didn't know until 8 o'clock this morning. Go home. I'll join you after the meeting with Interior Minister. I can't reschedule the bloody meeting."

Sherlock hung up, and took a taxi.

Two hours later Mycroft almost ran into his manor, calling out his brother's name. His voice echoed through the big empty house. No one answered. Throwing away his coat and briefcase, he entered the guest bedroom. His eyes noticed new items: a briefcase still zipped, a cup of tea, and Sjherlock's laptop. The laptop was turned on: Science of Deduction, the rarely visited website of his brother. He was turning around when he noticed a new message dated today. Mycroft turned pale when he read the message.

The message was simple, posted 33 minutes ago.

_Let's finish what Jim started. Find me. SM._

His mobile rang: it was John. He was checking Sherlock's webpage as usual and saw the message, too. At that moment, a new message popped up. A hyperlink. He clicked it and found a blank webpage with two photos: one was his brother right after the traffic accident. He wondered where Moran had gotten the photo because he'd never seen it before. The other was a photo of two people who were tied together. The Lestrades. The woman must be his wife. He could hear John's whisper on the other side of the line.

"It's my fault. It should've been me. I was his target, not Greg."

Mycroft asked,

"How did he get hold of Sherlock's photo? Who took it?"

John's breathing got heavier.

"Lestrade, he must have taken this photo when we found Sherlock after the cab accident. Why didn't he delete the photo?"

Mycroft asked,

"I don't think Lestrade showed it around."

"Oh, my God. It was Moran. We practiced shooting together last May and Lestrade lost his phone. It mysteriously turned up again after hours. Moran must have stolen his mobile and found the photo."

"He got the proof that Sherlock didn't die. Then he vanished, waiting for our defense get lower."

Mycroft's voice was cold and calm while his brain working fervently. Mycroft could hear John's groans.

_Moriarty and Sherlock, where did their paths cross? Bart's!_

John slowly said,

"Moran has lost me. So he got Greg instead."

After a moment silence, John asked Mycroft to fetch him: he needed to save Lestrade. His voice had a chill that Mycroft had never knew.

"I drove him to Moran's path. He would've been perfectly safe if I had not taken him to the shooting practice. I need a bullet-proof vest and a gun."

Mycroft promised to send a car, hung up the phone, and hurried out.

* * *

A couple of special agents opened the door to the rooftop of Bart's. Mycroft followed when they shouted, "Clear, here." The rooftop was abandoned. Actually the door had been bolted heavily. Since the fall the hospital saw to it that the door be locked. There was no one there. His deduction was wrong. The hospital was the first place that popped up in his mind. Wiping off sweats with his handkerchief, Mycroft thought desperately.

_If not Bart's, then where? Where is his brother? Think, Mycroft, think! The Pool…the five pips._

He ordered the agents to go to the pool. He tried Sherlock's mobile again, but the phone was still turned off. In the parking lot, someone called out his name. It was John. Mycroft started to explain what happened. John got tense when Mycroft confirmed what he had dreaded: the DI and his wife had gone missing. Before they got in the car, John put on the bullet-proof vest. In the car, he carefully checked the gun. Mycroft knew his words would not stop John: he was heading back to the battle field.

They were almost there: three minutes before the pool. Suddenly they heard a loud noise; the car swayed; the ground shook; and plumes of black smoke and dusts were seen two blocks away. Mycroft's eyes met John's in fear. When the car screeched to a halt, they jumped out. The pool was gone: there were heaps of concrete chunks, broken glasses, and metal beams. The driver called the police; they could hear sirens getting closer. Mycroft and John ran towards the rubble, calling out the names, "Sherlock" and "Greg". No one answered: the visibility was terrible due to dusts and smoke. The rubbles seemed unstable so they could not get closer.

A few minutes later two shadows appeared out of nowhere. John's heart leapt. He asked,

"Sherlock?"

Covered in dust and bleeding from gashes, a tall figure was helping a female to walk. John called out Mycroft. Sherlock staggered and laid the woman down on the ground.

"John, this is Mrs. Lestrade. She got hurt. Look after her."

John knelt before Mrs. Lestrade and checked her wounds. She was in shock; bruises on her face; definitely broke her left arm. Police and ambulances arrived, but Sherlock didn't see them. He ran towards the pool again. Mycroft grabbed him.

"What are you doing? It's not safe."

"Lestrade, he's still there. Moran, too."

"You have to explain to the police; let the experts deal with it."

His brother's face was like a ghost. Mycroft made him sit and explain. The police and fire fighters started the search of the rubbles; dogs sniffed around and a crane arrived. Sherlock refused to move but he needed medical attention and there was nothing he could do. The search might take for days. It took both John and Mycroft to make him ride an ambulance.

It was getting so dark so the search and rescue had to wait until the following morning. The temperature was going down fast as it started raining.

_Could Lestrade be able to last the night?_

John and Mycroft looked at each other. In the hospital, Sherlock tersely stated that Lestrade was behind them; Moran detonated the bomb; Sherlock tried to double back when he saw the DI fall beneath a beam. Then he saw Greg's desperate eyes fixed on his wife. His eyes were telling to take out his wife from there first. Sherlock had to oblige. Behind them, the rest of the ceiling crumbled. Sherlock, John, and Mycroft barely slept that night.

When the dawn broke, Sergeant Donovan drove them back to the pool. They waited for any news. Two hours into the resumed search and rescue, Sebastian Moran's body was recovered. After thirty more minutes of waiting, Greg Lestrade was rescued: hypothermia, concussions, shock, broken bones, gashes all over... It was better that he was unconscious.

* * *

**Epilogue**

When Greg Lestrade woke up, he found his wife's tearful face first. Then he could see other people like Sherlock, John, and Mycroft. Given the brain surgery and broken bones, his recovery was slow and painful: he had to go through a long physio-therapy to regain basic muscle skills like speaking. He didn't elaborate on the ordeal of that day much; he had some troubles in remembering things. However, he signed the divorce paper first when he was able to move his hand despite his wife's hesitation. Later, he had to explain why: his presence in her life could put her in a grave danger like that night and he wasn't going to let it happen again.

Mycroft offered that Greg stay in his manor for the time being until he recovered and went back to his work. Given the economy, it would take time to sell the house and split money with his ex-wife. Greg needed a place to move out. John had offered 221B yet living with Sherlock was not an easy thing - Greg had the experience long ago. Mycroft, who had been feeling guilty for his negligence, surprised everybody by offering one of his guest rooms.

Greg Lestrade was released on the 6th of January, Sherlock's birthday. He still needed a wheelchair and months of rehabilitation. Everybody was waiting at Mycroft's. Mycroft and Sherlock picked up the DI.

The manor was clean and comfortable: the fireplace glowed; people sat surrounding the DI, talking and laughing. Sherlock didn't deny it when John said Greg's return would be the best birthday present for the detective. Nor did he roll his eyes when everyone said Happy Birthday. Mycroft's eyes almost burned because this was the first ever birthday party for his brother since his childhood. People who cared each other were celebrating a return of two people: Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade.

The sleuth took his violin out of the case and played a happy birthday song. John made coffee and tea while Mycroft brought a huge chocolate cake out. He didn't dare to do candle-blowing thing - he felt so lucky that his brother did save words. He just sliced the cake and served each piece to the guests. For once, the detective didn't comment on his brother's diet. Sherlock kept on playing beautiful music, ignoring his plate. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, John, Mycroft, and Greg enjoyed the sweetness of the chocolate. When Mycroft got another piece of the cake, Sherlock stopped music and started the usual bickering with his brother. It was just like the old times.

* * *

I couldn't decide if this story should end in tragedy or not: Sebastian Moran's Journal ended with a happy ending (Life still goes on). I was writing some antsy one with a character death. Well, my family opposed to it; In addition, Greg is one of my favorite characters. So here is another happy ending: back to normalcy.

Actually I have just found out that Greg Lestarde was divorced in the 202: his tanned hand shows that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. In both versions of my story, Lestrade gets divorced around the Pool confrontation with Moran.

Reviews can encourage me a lot. Please, would you leave a few lines?


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